Iwasgoing to head home from the bar to get a feed, but seeing how the Morrigan sisters have settled in, and with the arrival of the jilted bride’s best friend, I’m not going anywhere. They’re here for the duration, and now, so am I. I can’t help myself.
If there’s a story here, I’ll be the one to write it, even though it’s a terrible idea, even though the growing number of patrons in the bar makes my skin itch and the space behind my eyes throb. It’s why I don’t usually come around later.
The Anchor has the space beyond the beer garden all set up for a series of boxing matches. It’s going to be louder, busier, and with an official and temperamental case of PTSD that has been responsible for the occasional debilitatingmigraine since I got back, let’s just say it’s in my interest to get out while the going’s good.
I should leave. I know this. But my curiosity, myhungerto impress my boss and write something real, something relatable, something that could make a difference to my career, has me in a choke hold.
Matty hugs each sister in turn, holding Rhiannon for longer than the other two, rubbing circles on her back. By all accounts, he’s a solid fella; he’s also the most handsome man in Larne. I’m straight as a rod, but I know a fine-lookin’ lad when I see one. It’s also possible I may be juuuuust a bit jealous of the man’s good looks.
Or at the very least his shampoo-ad-worthy hair.
Much to the dismay of the female population of the town, Matthew Miles Murphy is gay. He’s a politician, spending his days trying to make the world a better place.
I snort, then catch myself on, as I’m sitting here on my own sipping on a pint. I don’t want to draw attention, especially not for being mildly unhinged and laughing out loud to myself.
There is no making this spherical dumpster fire floating in space a better place, no matter who tries, or how hard for that matter.
Another body invades my personal bubble, making me shift in my seat and cast a furtive glance over my shoulder, but Matty’s already sidled up next to me. He’s leaning over the bar to place an order, and I stop myself from staring at the side of his face, barely resisting the urge to start up a conversation in a bid to pump him for intel. It would be too obvious, and he’s far too well practiced at keeping a straight face.
There’s literally no way she’s stormed out of her wedding and is going to spill all her drunken secrets right here at The Rusty Anchor.
I’m not that lucky. And she’s not that stupid. Even when the drink’s in.
I bet that man knows where all the bodies are, though. You can’t be best friends with Rhiannon Morrigan—since childhood, might I add—and not have heard a thing or two about that family’s skeletons. What I wouldn’t give to interview him. Or any of the family, for that matter, but that’s even less likely than getting blood from the politician-shaped stone. Especially for me.
As a family, the Morrigans are tight knit. Their ranks are closed, always have been, and—aside from the viral footage from her wedding less than two hours ago—they keep their heads down, staying out of the spotlight.
I wince. Unlike me.
I bet Mum would much rather if I toed the family line a bit more and kept myself out of the limelight.Why can’t you be more like your sister, Robert?
She stayed a homebird, didn’t run off like her big brother did, to be a political reporter in a war-torn part of the world where trouble followed close behind.
Why, indeed, can’t I be like Emma?
I take a sip of my drink. To be honest, after the Middle East, sports journalism felt like a mercy, but so far, it’s been its own minefield to navigate.
For the Morrigans, it’s rugby first, then family. Balls before bonds. Boots before blood. Sport before siblings. An odd order of importance if you ask me, but it’s generally understood that it’s the sport above all else in their world. And those priorities aren’t conducive to making headline news with salacious scandals.
Their da’s already spinning the story like a performer with multiple plates on long sticks. Ha. Fuck. I bet Old Man Morrigan is doing his absolute fucking nut right now.
Part of me envies having something to believe in the waythey do, having the tight-knit group of people you can rely on no matter what. I used to have that, before my accident, my leg, before Dad…
I swallow down the bitter ball of grief bubbling up at the back of my throat and focus on recalling facts about the trio of women sitting over in the corner of the bar to temper the simmering upset never too far beneath my skin.
The Morrigans have been an institution in the rugby world since Noah and the ark. And even the thought of being this close has me salivating and momentarily contemplating sending them a round of drinks to help loosen their tongues.
But, unfortunately for me, and my boss, I’m not that kind of man.
Fight the good fight, that’s me. Even if the world is doomed.
That’s kind of what got me into this fucked-up mess in the first place.
Coming back from being a foreign correspondent after nearly a decade wasn’t easy, and ofcourseI wanted to make a big splash, an immediate, recognizable name for myself. Couldn’t “lower myself” to come back home after so many years of living abroad with nothing to show for it and slink back into obscurity, could I?
Course not.
Officially, I came back for the new job, which is laughable, because the pay cut to come home was shocking.
